


a snow globe, shaken (look inside, watch it fall)

by TheKnittingJedi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insomnia, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, how many times can you use the word soft?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 01:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/pseuds/TheKnittingJedi
Summary: Angels and demons draw their powers from Heaven and Hell, respectively.When that link weakens, so does their power.They have to start drawing it from somewhere else.





	1. Chapter 1

It was just a temporary inconvenience. That’s what Aziraphale told himself, the first time it happened. A blunder, absolutely to be expected from time to time. Nothing to be alarmed about.

What happened was that he made himself a cup of cocoa, like he'd done a million times before. He anticipated a perfectly pleasant afternoon with a warm drink and a book, the ideal way to wait for his dinner appointment with Crowley. He was feeling a bit out of sorts, but nothing that he couldn’t ignore. What happened was that the book engrossed him so much that he forgot his cocoa entirely, and by the time he emerged from the pages it had gone cold.

What happened was that, when he absent-mindedly tried to make it hot again, he felt so dizzy he almost passed out. A wave of nausea washed over him, leaving puzzlement in its wake.

His first instinct was to try again, ignoring the fear coiled in his guts, which begged to differ. It was a frivolous miracle, after all, a barely supernatural trick that he had performed time and time again without a second thought. He got up from the armchair and focused on the mug, trying to reassure himself: it would be all right.

The second time was like being punched in the stomach.

He recoiled until he bumped his shoulder against a shelf, and asked himself if it was the right moment to panic or if he ought to wait until later.

It was to be expected, after all. They had averted an Apocalypse and were disowned by Heaven and Hell. There were bound to be consequences.

He didn’t know how to broach the subject, so he let it steam in the back of his head for the entirety of dinner, which went on in an unusually quiet fashion and ended with the customary bottle of wine in the bookshop’s backroom (had the armchair always been this comfy? Had the couch always been this large?)

“Tell me”, said Crowley. His eyes pierced through him with the intensity of small suns, since he didn’t bother with glasses anymore, not when they were alone.

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, angel, you look like something the cat dragged in and you barely said a word all evening. Spit it. What’s up?”

Aziraphale looked at the ceiling without moving his head. “ _ Up _ is exactly the problem. I’m afraid I’ve been… cut off from the source. Even the smallest miracle is…”

“Painful?”

“Impossible, I’d say. Wait… how do you know that?  _ Crowley, is this happening to you, too? _ ”

“Eh, kind of. It’s been a bit more difficult, lately. Bit tiring. Didn’t give it much thought, honestly. It’s not  _ gone _ . And I usually feel better when I wake up.”

“From sleep?”

“What else can you wake up from? Yes, angel, from sleep. You should try.”

“No, thank you. Maybe it’s just temporary. I just need time to adapt, and it will go away on its own.”

“Or maybe you’re just exhausted from everything that’s happened and need to rest.” Confronted with obstinate silence, Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He tells himself lies. He’s scared. He likes things the way they’ve always been.

Except this is also a lie. It’s been a comfortable self-deception that allowed him to maintain a somewhat stable grip on his mind for millennia, and that was shattered when Heaven decided that the party line was more valuable than Aziraphale’s existence.

The reason to keep the lie in place had vanished with this realization. Heaven was not his home anymore. It hadn’t been for quite some time, if he was being honest.

What do you do when an invisible hand picks up the snow globe of your world and gives it a good shake?

You stay very, very still and look at the snow falling.

When Aziraphale telephoned asking him to come by the bookshop at his earliest convenience, Crowley hung up the phone with the utmost calm, then grabbed the keys of the Bentley and drove to the shop at his usual speed, which was breakneck in any case.

As he stepped inside, he believed he was ready for any scenario, except maybe the one that actually happened: Aziraphale coming out of the back room, dressed in pyjamas.

The angel looked at himself self-consciously. “It's old-fashioned, I know, but I trust it will answer.”

Crowley was at a loss for words and said the first thing that came into his mind. “Answer to what?”

Lucky for him, Aziraphale replied to the question he was expecting, not the one he was actually asked. “Well, you see, I thought about what you said the other day. I believe you're right. I am exhausted. And I want to fix it.”

“You talk like it's broken china or something, that you can glue together and then you’re good to go. Just… go to sleep, angel”, said Crowley, as gently as he could. He couldn't read the angel's expression. Was it doubt? Hesitation? He tried to lighten the mood. “Did you call me here for fashion advice? Because your usual wardrobe is  _ outdated _ , but that thing is absolutely…”

Aziraphale fidgeted with the hem of his sleeves, ignoring him. “I tried to sleep. Believe me, I gave it my best shot. I aired the room, I made the bed, I even dressed appropriately. But… but…” His voice tapered off as he stumbled on the words, and Crowley finally recognized the expression: it was fear.

_ What? _ he thought.  _ Why? _

He didn't know what to do (he was afraid he didn't understand the situation at all, if he was being honest), but he had to do something. So he covered the distance between him and Aziraphale and, before he could talk himself out of it, grabbed the angel's shoulders. “Listen, it's all right, you just have to… What is it?” he asked when the angel winced.

Aziraphale had the look of someone who deeply regretted what they just did. “It's my shoulder. I hit it on a shelf, yesterday. Awfully clumsy of me.”

Crowley immediately took his hands away. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean… Wait a minute,  _ yesterday _ ?” The implication hit him a second later. “You couldn’t make it go away, could you?”

“I tried to, but… It’s never been a problem, ever, before… And, and, and it didn't… work.” His breath was belaboured and his voice grew smaller and smaller, until Crowley had to lean forward to hear him.

Now he was properly worried. “Angel, you said it yourself. You're exhausted. You just need to rest, and all will be better.”

Aziraphale sighed. It wasn't his usual beleaguered, overdramatic sigh: it was closer to a sob, a sound that started in his throat and ended right in Crowley's heart. “I already told you, I tried. It didn't work. I just… lie there and I start thinking about all these things… and my mind won’t shut up.”

Crowley was silent for a long time. Dozens of thoughts were chasing themselves in his head, and he picked one. “May I see your shoulder?”

“Why?”

“I'd just like to see it, if that's okay.”

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley knew what he was thinking: it was a level of familiarity that, in their thousand-year-old dance around each other, they hadn’t reached yet.

Then the angel made a decision and raised his hands to unbutton his shirt. He brushed Crowley's chest as he did so, because the demon was still within reaching distance. Neither of them remarked on it.

Crowley barely registered the beige undershirt the angel was wearing underneath and focused on the ugly, purple bruise on the angel's shoulder. It was almost black in places. It had no business being there, Crowley thought. He raised a hand in a gesture that was completely superfluous and the bruise disappeared.

He felt the energy leave his body, more strongly than he would have before. But he also felt… something else, the strange feeling of emptiness being immediately refilled.

That was interesting. Definitely food for thought. Later. “Now, about the other thing.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were unfocused. “The other thing?”

“Sleep, angel. Listen, it's perfectly normal to be restless, and I'd say we both have a lot of things to go through.” He pondered whether to ask him if he’d tried drinking something warm, or counting sheep, but he feared that they were past that. “Would it help to talk about them? The things that keep you awake?”

“I think… I'm  _ positive _ it would greatly help if you… stayed a bit. I'm aware that you probably have somewhere else to be…”

A wave of fond exasperation washed over him. How could he be so oblivious? Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders (since he could now do that without hurting him) to shut him up. “Angel, I've got nowhere else to be.” He meant it. He tried to let it show. “Do you have a bedroom?”

It was a testament to his distraught state of mind that Aziraphale managed to look only vaguely outraged by the suggestion. “Wh... That’s hardly proper.”

Crowley took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “You can’t sleep on your feet. Do I have to teach you the basics? The couch, then.” He sat first and patted the spot beside him. He had snoozed there plenty of times and knew that it was more comfortable than any old couch had the right to be.

Aziraphale settled himself beside him, a little unsteady. He looked so tired.

“Lay back and close your eyes, angel.”

“I’ve already tried that. Didn’t work.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’ve been overthinking the whole thing. Listen: we have all the time in the world. Sleep won't come if you think too much about it. That’s its whole deal.”

“What else should I be thinking about, then?”

“Just… close your eyes, please.”

Still sceptical, Aziraphale took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“It will work better if you lie down.”

Crowley had a pretty vivid imagination, if he said so himself, but there were some things that he dared not fantasize about, because he knew it was better to leave them alone. That’s the reason he was caught entirely off guard when the angel took another deep breath and, with his eyes still closed, laid his head in Crowley’s lap, folding his legs and crossing his arms. He had a look of mild determination and a fierce blush that mirrored the one on Crowley’s cheeks.

“O… okay.” Why did he have hands? What was he supposed to do with them, now? “Do you… want to talk about it, then?”

“Well, there’s not much to talk about.” The angel’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m… I’m terrified, Crowley.”

Crowley’s right hand finally settled on his thigh, bare inches from the angel’s downy hair, and he draped his left arm on the back of the couch. “I’ve been worried too, if that’s any comfort.”

“Have you?”

“We’re in uncharted territory, pretty much. We’ve rebelled against Heaven and Hell, and the precedents aren’t very encouraging.”

“That’s what I’m terrified about. What if… This whole rebel thing, it’s not really my scene, is it? What if this is my punishment? If Heaven… if Heaven casts me out, that means I’m…”

The anguish in his voice was unbearable. Crowley’s thinking mind decided to take an impromptu vacation as he put his left hand on the angel’s arm, close to his wrist. “Do you want to know what I think? You’re selling yourself short, angel. Don’t forget who you are. You have always gone your own way, even if you lied to yourself about it. The whole lot of them, those other white-winged wankers, they’ve got nothing on you.”

Eyes still closed, Aziraphale was shaking slightly. “I’m glad at least one of us thinks that.”

“Name one other angel, a single one, who’d have given away his God-given sword because he got concerned about the welfare of two humans.” Aziraphale’s silence bolstered him. “You loved them so much that you didn’t think twice when it came to choosing sides. There’s no point in questioning that, now.”

“It seemed like a good choice, at the time.”

“It was. It still is. And, besides, I made that same choice too, so that’s a plus.”

He meant it as a joke, but Aziraphale moved his arm until his hand was under Crowley’s, and the demon’s human heart deemed it appropriate to skip a beat. “Yes, it is.”

Millennia of restraint in this particular department suddenly found themselves crushed under those words. The two of them were, after all, on the same side. There was no war, no secrecy to maintain, no orders to follow anymore. They were free. And so what if there were some pitfalls? Some difficulties to overcome? He interlaced his fingers with the angel’s to drive the point home. “I don’t know if it’s of any comfort to you right now, but you’re not alone. Even if Heaven took away your powers, you still have mine.”

The angel shifted a little, pressing his face into Crowley’s belly, making him suddenly wish he was more soft, more comfortable to lie on, not all angles and sharp lines. Aziraphale’s breath was even, now, and Crowley pondered whether stroking his hair could be a good idea, but ultimately decided against it, lest he shocked the angel right out of Morpheus’ arms.

He needn’t have to worry. A moment later, Aziraphale opened his eyes, shifting fretfully. “It’s not working.”

“You have been trying for a grand total of two minutes, angel.”

“I can feel it. I’m never going to sleep.”

Crowley sighed. “What if I read something to you?”

“You would do that?”

The demon shrugged. “What would you like to hear?”

“There…” He pointed to the little table beside the couch, which was covered in books.

Crowley picked one up at random. “You know this one by heart.”

“How would you know that?”

His tone was so close to the old, snappy, uptight Aziraphale’s that Crowley couldn’t hide a smile. “I’ve listened to you going on and on about it, that’s how.” He let the book fall open.  _ Well, here we go. _

_ "There are other places  
_ _ Which also are the world's end  
some at the sea jaws,  
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city —  
But this is the nearest, in place and time,  
Now and in England.” _

He went on for some time, starting at the beginning when he reached the end of the poem. Aziraphale moved slightly from time to time, but his forehead smoothed and he started breathing more normally. Crowley wished he had a blanket to cover him with, and decided to miracle one. Only this time he paid attention.

Once again, the power answered to his call — making a soft, dark tartan fleece blanket disappear from a forgotten closet and reappear in his hands —, but it definitely had a different flavour than before. Not bad, just… different.

He kept reading aloud while he thought about this difference and Aziraphale’s fears. Should Crowley be scared? He'd never been afraid of change. He adapted to the times, slithering into and out of fashions and habits and social circles and countries and houses. When he had sauntered downwards, he was quick to adopt the lifestyle of the Fallen, but he belonged to Hell only as a cat belongs to the humans who feed and protect it. He was many other things besides a demon. Most of all, he knew who he was and, if he forgot, he had a north pole stable enough to keep him anchored. Crowley always knew where his loyalty lay. It was never with Hell.

Aziraphale's identity, on the other hand, was so strictly tied with Heaven that the separation was bound to be traumatic. He used to like it: the righteousness, the certainty, the guarantee that he was good and right because those were facts, sanctioned by a higher authority. When it all fell apart, when he chose to leave Heaven's side to take Earth's (to take Crowley's), the palace he had spent millennia building collapsed on itself, burying him under the rubble.

Crowley wanted nothing more than to ease those fears. He knew what it felt like to be lost and to crave answers. He was used to it, by now, although sometimes the injustice still stung. He couldn’t allow himself to think too much about Aziraphale feeling the same things, because the mere implication filled him with pure rage.

He forced himself to focus on the present moment. He was with his angel, who sought him specifically in a moment of despair. Crowley was making himself useful and comforting, and it had to be enough.

If he had to guess, he would have said that the angel was sleeping. It was the first time he saw him asleep, he was surprised to realise. They were still holding hands — Crowley had to stop himself from thinking too much about that, too — and, when he slowed his pace and then stopped reading altogether, Aziraphale didn’t stir, didn’t open his eyes.

Crowley closed the book and was beginning to remove himself from the couch to fetch some more wine when Aziraphale gasped and moved. Before Crowley could apologise, though, he realised that the angel was dreaming.

It wasn’t a pleasant dream, judging from the noises that escaped his lips. With a jolt, Crowley became aware that it could be the first time he dreamed.

He had a few guesses as to what unpleasantness he was dreaming about. He couldn’t wake him up, after all the trouble they’d been through to get him to sleep in the first place. Maybe he could make him a little more comfortable, if nothing else.

As gently as possible, he slipped from under Aziraphale’s head, cradling it with his hands — his hair was impossibly soft, much more so than he had expected, and a surge of something blossomed in his chest —, and then, ever so carefully, he put his arms under his back and legs and lifted him, blanket and all.

Grinning at the idea of the angel’s embarrassment when he’d wake up, Crowley carried him to where he thought was his bedroom.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been writing fics in a thousand years. I haven't written anything I was happy about in almost ten. This would never have been possible without the Good Omens fandom; without you, fanfic writers, paragons of kindness and beauty and creativity; and most of all you, the friends who read this first, especially [TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan/pseuds/TheGan). I love all of you.  
Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale didn’t know where he was.

No, this wasn’t entirely true: he knew he was in Heaven, but it wasn’t the Heaven he remembered. He’d never been in this particular room, of that he was certain, but the oppressive emptiness, the blinding whiteness of the walls, the silence as obnoxious as white noise… He couldn’t be anywhere else.

“There he is”, said a voice, startling him.

“We caught him.”

Aziraphale turned and turned, but he was alone. Then he turned once more, and where a moment ago there was a wall he saw a long, large corridor. The right side of it was made entirely of windows, but the brightness outside was so strong that nothing could be seen.

“We have him”, another voice said. Or was it the same?

“The trial can begin.”

There was something at the end of the corridor. Something that shone a light of a different colour.

Hot. Orange. Fiery.

“What…” he started to say.

And then he was in front of the source of light, which was a column of fire that roared so strongly it seemed alive — alive and hungry —, and the voice said: “Shut up and die already”, and someone pushed him in the fire.

He must have started screaming at some point, but he realized it only when he stopped and his cry was replaced by silence. He had also closed his eyes, because he knew he was going to die and it was only natural that one should close his eyes in the face of permanent demise.

This wasn’t Heaven’s silence, though. This silence was delicate and soft and had no undercurrent of steel on a grinding stone. It was a warm silence. It felt like being embraced, like being safe.

It was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He didn’t open them until he heard someone discreetly clearing his voice. “May I?” asked Crowley, lifting a hand.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, but his expression had to be enough, because the demon’s thumb caught the tears before they could roll past his cheekbones.

Dream Crowley was very similar to the real Crowley, but for some reason his hair was longer and he looked taller, maybe because he wasn’t slouching or leaning or doing all the things he usually did with his body. His back was straight, but somehow he looked more relaxed. And, for some reason, he was dressed in white. No, Aziraphale noticed, looking closer: the layers of his robes were pearl, ivory, light blue.

After a while, Crowley sniffed and looked away. Aziraphale realised that he’d been staring at him and averted his eyes too, although it was entirely superfluous now. That’s how he noticed where they were: there was white sand under their naked feet, white dunes stretching from horizon to horizon, and the sky over them was lilac and purple and ultramarine and dotted with clusters of stars. He lowered his gaze from the sky to himself: he was dressed in the same fashion as Crowley, although his robes had more earthy tones, ochres and saffrons.

“I stopped time”, said Crowley, without looking at him. “You were having a nightmare.”

“I’ve been here before”, Aziraphale murmured. “So… was I dreaming? Am I dreaming now?”

Crowley’s face made a familiar grimace. “Eh, ish. You were dreaming before. Now we are in a place, but not physically. And there’s not really a  _ when _ … It’s bloody hard to explain. Look, it’s safe. Are you feeling better?”

Aziraphale inhaled deeply. The air had a faint scent of desert and pomegranates. He  _ did _ feel better. More serene than he’d been in days. If he had to describe the sensation… “It feels like when I get off your car. Glad to be still alive and in one piece after fearing discorporation.”

Crowley turned his head and smiled at him. “The cheek, angel. I’m not driving you anywhere anymore, if you keep this up.”

“Perish the thought.” Before he realised it, Aziraphale was smiling too. He inhaled again. Yes, he could almost say he felt  _ good _ . “Why are we dressed like this?”

“It’s your fault, technically. I plucked you from your nightmare to bring you here, but it’s your dream.” Crowley picked up a lock from his shoulder and examined it. “Should I grow my hair long again?”

“And our physical bodies are where we left them?”

Crowley averted his eyes again, blushing slightly. “We’re still in the bookshop, yes.”

Aziraphale was definitely going to investigate that, but right now he had more pressing concerns. “You’re doing the same thing you did at the airport base in Tadfield. You’re using your powers. Will you be all right?”

“I’m peachy, angel. I’m barely doing anything. But we better not keep this up for long, because I don’t think it’s very restful for you.” He gave him a long glance. “Are you still worried? We can talk for a bit, if you want.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know. Yes, I am worried. Less than before, though. It’s nice to know I can count on you, to be honest.” He couldn’t decipher the expression in Crowley’s eyes, so he looked frantically for another subject, but the demon anticipated him.

“What do you think about, when you conjure your power? What do you feel?”

“That’s not an easy question.” It was a purely instinctual action. Nobody asked fish how they knew how to swim. “It's… faith, I suppose. Trust. In heavenly might and in my own.” He hesitated. “What do  _ you _ feel?”

The question didn't catch Crowley off guard. He'd already thought about it, apparently. “Confidence. The feeling is very similar, I guess. I wouldn't call it faith, not the way you mean, but yes, at the heart of it there's confidence.”

“Well, I'm hardly surprised. You've always been the confident type.”

Crawley laughed. “Sure, angel. If you call constantly lying to yourself and being a general disaster 'confidence'.” He paused. “Sometimes it's more like desperation. Hoping against hope that it will work. Necessity. There are a few things that motivate me. You're one of them.”

Right then and there, something shifted inside Aziraphale. It was a strange, satisfying sensation, like something that slotted into place, like the first bite of an apple — teeth breaking the skin and sinking in the pulp and the juice —, the sensation of things being exactly as they should be.

He let this knowledge wash over him and fill him. In this moment of acceptance, something else shifted.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was mildly surprised as the sand moved under their feet. He made to grab Aziraphale’s arm, to stabilize himself or to make sure the angel didn’t fall.

Startled, Aziraphale did the same thing at the same time, and their hands fumbled, entangled in the flowy robes that Aziraphale’s imagination had conjured from God knew where. “It must be”, he murmured, looking Crowley in the eye.

“What?”

He knew what to do. “Let’s go back.”

_ Let’s go back _ , said the angel, kindly, softly.

Crowley opened his metaphysical hand and let go of the thought keeping the dream together. A moment passed, then another, and time began flowing again, a bit baffled by the interruption but otherwise unconcerned, reclaiming the semi-dark room which had briefly escaped its grasp and moving ahead, nothing to see here.

He was the first to open his eyes, so he got to see Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter while his consciousness returned from the dreamscape. They were lying in bed, facing each other. Earlier, he had gently set the angel on the duvet, smoothing his hair like it was a necessary part of the process, before circling the bed and lying on the other side, leaving a respectable distance between them.

As the flow of time resumed, Crowley’s outpouring of feeling was too strong for him to contain. It must have hit the angel like a gust of wind, like a whiplash, because he instantly opened his eyes, startled and vulnerable and  _ looking at him _ .

It took all his courage for Crowley not to go away and hide in a dark corner, better if it was in another solar system. He had irrevocably exposed himself, after centuries of innuendos and maybes and you-could-stay-at-my-places. He had made a few half-hearted attempts to squash or ignore his feelings, but the problem with this kind of stuff is that you can’t wait for it to starve and die, because it feeds when you’re not paying attention. You can’t try to prune and shape it, because the branches aren’t the problem, it’s the roots. They go too deep.

There was nothing left to do but enjoy the last few moments of not knowing for certain and wait for the rest of his life to start in earnest.

Aziraphale lifted one of his hands, which he had tucked under his chin in his sleep, and moved it gingerly towards Crowley’s face.  _ Is this too much? _ his eyes asked. His fingertips barely brushed the skin as he pushed a few strands of hair away from the demon’s forehead, then they descended feather-like on his cheek.  _ Is this? _

Crowley had forgotten how to breathe. He closed his eyes.

“I love your eyes.”

He opened them again.

“I love your face.” The angel cupped his cheek and somehow his hand managed not to catch fire against the heath that Crowley felt he was radiating.

“It’s a pretty face”, he quipped, because he had to say something to make this stop.  _ (Please, angel, never stop.) _

“It’s yours.” Looking like someone who just made a decision, or perhaps realized something important, Aziraphale took a deep breath and closed his eyes, concentrating.

Crowley was watching him like he saw him for the first time, but he was distracted by a movement just at the corner of his eye. He gasped.

The room was filled with fireflies.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. “I will return them to their habitat soon enough, poor things. But I wanted to give it a try, you know. Thank you.”

Speechless, Crowley only managed to raise his eyebrows.

“You made me understand what I was too foolish to see before. I can’t thrive where I don’t belong. And my place is not in Heaven anymore. It is here, on Earth, with you.” He held Crowley’s hands and pulled them to his chest. “That’s where you’ve been drawing your power from lately, isn’t it? I just did the same.”

Crowley doubted he would be able to speak ever again. He opened his mouth, but thought better of it.  _ Don’t ruin it. _

If he had ever allowed himself to hope for something, it could well have been a room full of fireflies and an angel who looked at him as though he was the most important thing in the universe. An angel who leaned forward, brushing away the uncrossable distance between them, and kissed him so softly on lips that most definitely didn’t deserve it.

After what seemed like several human lifetimes, Aziraphale moved back, somewhat hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

Two things occurred to Crowley right then and there. The first was that he had been too stunned to react and he actually made the angel apologise for kissing him. The second was that he had to kiss him again.

So he did it, smothering an apology with his lips and eliciting the most delightfully surprised noise from Aziraphale, who hadn’t let go of his hands yet. Crowley saw no reason to change that, but when the angel cupped his face to deepen the kiss he had to admit that it was a slightly better use of them.

When they parted, they stayed close, foreheads touching, Aziraphale’s fingers carding through Crowley’s hair.

“Mmm”, the demon said intelligently, closing his eyes.

“I like sleeping with you”, the angel said softly, like he was telling a secret. “I was afraid — of a lot of things, actually, but also that I wouldn’t wake up. This is one of the reasons I called you.”

Some part of Crowley’s brain, the part that wasn’t purring under Aziraphale’s fingers, looked frantically for a witty answer. “You should have told me. I’d have given anything hear you say you wanted to get into bed with me.” When the angel didn’t reply, Crowley opened one eye. “Did I ruin the moment?”

But Aziraphale was smiling fondly. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Oh, no, don’t test me. Really, angel, please.”

“Also, I should point out that the bed was your idea.”

Something tightened inside Crowley’s chest. “Is this all right? I just thought…”

“Of course it’s all right.”

They were still close enough to share their breaths. Crowley felt like he was in the front row at the opera. He watched the angel cover a yawn with his hand.

“I’d very much like to try this sleep thing again, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

Aziraphale shifted closer, burying his face in Crowley’s chest, forcing him to open his arms and then, for a lack of better options, to embrace him. The angel settled into Crowley’s arms and murmured something.

Feeling like his heart was about to explode, Crowley answered: “Love you too”. If they were to be his last words, he had no regrets.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a word on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com)! Keysmashes are also welcomed.


End file.
